War
by mashimoshi
Summary: War is a terrifying thing. It takes away almost everyone's sense of humanity. Could the same thing be said for Aramis and his brothers? (AU: Aramis does join the war) (DISCONTINUED)
1. Chapter 1

**New story! Don't worry, I will continue the other one, but less frequently. I do want to work on other stuff, too.**

 **This one will mostly focus on Aramis, as well as his three friends, and will have a lot of hurt/comfort and all that. I got this idea from school, actually, since we are learning about World War I. You will see what I am talking about.**

 **Please don't forget to read and review!! Enjoy!**

 **-M**

* * *

The four of them flinched as the sound of a canon exploded around them, and dirt fell on top of their heads.

Aramis was quick to shake the grime out of his hair, his eyes falling on his brothers.

They were all tired, hungry, and hurt in some way.

Athos' arm had been grazed by a musket ball, and was now securely bandaged by their best medic - Aramis. D'Artagnan's ribs were slightly bruised, and were already mended by the same man - Aramis. Porthos had been shot in the shoulder earlier, and had avoided infection thanks to the same man - Aramis.

Aramis did everything, and never asked for anything in return.

Now, as he sat with broken ribs, a recently relocated shoulder, and a heavy graze on his cheek, in a dirty trench, surrounded by dead men and even more dirt, he still hadn't made a single complaint.

But his friends saw right through him, and knew that he was exhausted. He was pale and sweating, struggling to keep his eyes open. His entire body was shaking with fatigue, even though he tried hard to keep in place.

Another explosion.

Porthos watched as Aramis gasped, and he couldn't help but crawl over to the marksman and take his hand.

The poor man sucked in a breath and winced, the small amount of fear that had been lingering in his eyes turning into recognition.

The two of them locked gazes for a few seconds, but were interrupted by, yet, another explosion, and the sound of men screaming.

Aramis' eyes shot up, and he began to stand up.

Porthos just pulled him back down and pressed his own forehead against his friend's. "This is not your fault," he said softly, ruffling Aramis' hair just a little.

Aramis just closed his eyes. "I should have protected them," he replied, his voice weak.

The next thing they all knew, they were running towards the enemy, muskets and rapiers on the ready.

Athos stayed as close as he could to Aramis, ready to help him if need be. Somehow, he never needed to.

The marksman was giving it his all. It was as if he just forgot all of his previous pain. The only thing on his mind was to try avenge the soldiers that had died because he didn't save them.

When it was all over, and the enemy had retreated, the four Musketeers and about fifteen others were all that were left.

Once finally realizing that it was done, Aramis practically collapsed, all of his energy leaving him. He looked around him, his eyes filling with tears as he saw all of the dead bodies littering the ground.

"Aramis," someone said.

Looking up, Aramis saw that it was d'Artagnan. He had a concerned expression on his face.

"You're bleeding," he pointed out.

Aramis looked to the left of him, and saw blood forming on his arm. Taking a closer look, he realized that he had been shot.

"Oh," he simply said. "I did not notice."

XxXxX

They began making their way back to camp.

The fifteen soldiers that were left, who were only kids, rushed back, wanting to get out from the battlefield, but Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan, and Aramis had to take their time.

When they finally did make it, they were greeted by their general, who hated them all for reasons unknown.

"I watched you collapse, soldier," he said coldly, pointing his index finger at poor Aramis. "You have been made to fight, not grieve over a few losses."

Before Aramis could reply, Porthos stood up for him. "Some of those men were our brothers. We have a right to feel emotion if one of them - or in this case, all of them - die. Not to mention that Aramis is also injured. He had treated everyone but himself during the battle, and needs medical attention more than anybody."

"You cannot send so many men to battle like this," Athos said. "More than half of them die in a couple of minutes. How do you expect us to win this war?"

The General scoffed. "You're the Captain, figure it out." His eyes hardened. "And you," he continued, turning back to Aramis. "Don't ever let me catch you doing what you just did." He reached out and pulled Aramis by his hair, forcing the soldier to look at him. "I promise you, you will be punished if you do it again."

With that, he left.

Aramis' head dropped down, and he leaned against Porthos, groaning quietly.

"We need to get him to the medic's tent," d'Artagnan said. "Fast."

Porthos growled quietly. "I want to kill him," he whispered under his breath.

"Don't, my friend," Aramis quickly said. "The war has done this to him and nothing else. It has ripped all of his humanity away. It's done that to many."

His three friends heard the sadness in his voice, and the understood exactly what he was saying. They knew that he was right.

Deciding not to dwell on it any further, Porthos began helping Aramis to the medic's tent, where he was instantly treated. It was painful, and they all hated seeing Aramis forcing himself to not scream.

When it was all over and done with, the four of them went to their own tents. As much as Aramis protested against resting, he was finally convinced when it seemed that he couldn't even bring himself to talk anymore.

As he sat down on his makeshift bed - which was nothing but some hay wrapped in fabric - he unconsciously reached for the cross around his neck. He sighed, memories of Anne entering his mind.

I wonder how my son is doing, he thought to himself. He cursed at himself, knowing that he could never think like that. Ever.

"Get some rest, mon ami," Athos said, patting the man's uninjured shoulder. "Who knows what missions we will be put on tomorrow?"

Aramis scoffed. "All I know is that they will be nothing but death traps," he replied, letting his eyes close as he laid back, his arm wrapping around his ribs.

He was asleep in seconds.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow, two chapters in one day! I hope you enjoy.**

 **All the translations I have gotten for the Spanish I put into this chapter are from Google Translate, so I am sorry if I am mistaken and Spanish is your native language.**

 **Either way, I hope you like this chapter. Please make sure to read and review!**

 **-M**

* * *

Throughout the night, awful dreams plagued him.

His friends often sat beside him, trying to calm him down as he thrashed and screamed.

His mind kept showing him pictures of men dying, begging him to help, screaming and crying. It left Aramis trembling, because as much as he wanted to, he couldn't help those poor people.

But it got to the point where he couldn't take it anymore. He gasped awake, his pain making itself well known. With a weak cry, Aramis curled into himself, trying to steady his breathing.

"Woah there!" a familiar voice exclaimed.

It was Porthos. He was looking at him with nothing but warmth in his dark eyes.

"You're alright," he said, taking Aramis' hand. "You're safe."

Aramis nodded slowly, holding his head in his hands. "What is the time?" he asked quietly.

"Almost dawn," the bigger man replied. "Athos is with the General. I think we have a new mission."

Right at that time, Athos walked into the tent, along with d'Artagnan. The two of them smiled when seeing Aramis awake.

"We have a new mission," Athos announced. "And I don't think you two will like it … The four of us and the remaining men have to go on Spanish territory and kill whomever we can see, particularly their General. Aramis, you will have to do it. Our General wants to see exactly what you can do."

"That bastard," Porthos muttered. "Can't he see that you're injured?"

"I will do it," Aramis said. "I do not know how this is going to help the war, but if that is what he wants, then I will do it." He smiled, the smile never reaching his eyes. "Besides, I really don't want to stay here any longer. When do we leave?"

"In an hour," replied d'Artagnan. "We should start getting ready."

In less than half an hour, the four Musketeers, the General, and fifteen other soldiers were on their way to a Spanish camp, walking through a forest to try and avoid being caught.

It was cold, too cold for Aramis' liking. He forced his body not to shiver, afraid of his General finding out.

When they did make it to the Spanish camp, they were above it. That was where they were going to set up.

As Aramis was taking out his musket and began to load it, he heard footsteps behind him. Turning around, he saw that it was the General.

"You better not miss, soldier," the older man said coldly. "There will be consequences if you do."

The marksman only nodded, unable to say anything in return. He continued loading his gun, amazed that his fingers were steady.

Finally, he was ready and in position.

Porthos was standing next to him. "You can do it, Aramis," he assured him. "You never miss."

Aramis chuckled wryly. "I don't know about today," he murmured, letting his eyes search for his target.

After finding him, he took a deep breath - but not too deep to keep his ribs in place - and put a shaking finger on the trigger. Something was off. He was shaking way too hard…

… But he still fired.

And he missed.

 _"¡Mierda!"_ Aramis cursed, fear crawling into his heart.

The musket ball hit the Spanish General's shoulder, setting off chaos in the camp.

Spanish soldiers located the Musketeers and ran towards them, ready to fight.

Aramis jumped up and looked at the General, who was looking at him with total disdain. He mentally prepared himself for the punishment.

But for now, he knew he would have to fight as hard as he could … despite all his injuries.

It was grueling, and he truly did not know how he was doing it. Still, his good luck streak did not last as long as he had hoped, and soon enough, he was overpowered by the Spanish.

They grabbed him and knocked him to the ground, beginning to beat him. Their hits were strong, strong enough to make Aramis' body feel the agony. He screamed, his last bit of energy leaving him as he fell into unconsciousness.

But before total darkness claimed him, he heard someone calling his name, and then somebody else saying, "leave him!"

Aramis recognizes that voice as the General's.

XxXxX

"How could you just leave him like that?!!" Porthos yelled when he, his remaining friends, the General, and the surviving soldiers finally came to a stop. By that time they were back at their camp, and the Spaniards were nowhere to be found. "He's injured, and those men have him. Do you have any idea what they will do to him?!"

Athos was practically holding him when Porthos finished with his rant. He had this sad expression on his face, and he was looking down.

"We had to, or else _everyone_ would have been slaughtered," the General replied.

"Since when do you care about that?" Porthos snarled.

"You watch your tongue," the other man snapped back. "If you really want your friend back, then we will have to form a plan over the next few days. Let's just hope that the soldier will last that long."

"His name is not 'soldier'," d'Artagnan said quietly. "It's Aramis."

The General pretended not to pay attention to the comment, and chose to continue, "We will get him back, but in time. You all just need some patience."

The three men nodded and began to make their way all the way to camp, where they would spend the next few days forming a plan as to how they would save their Aramis.

XxXxX

As Aramis woke, pain engulfed him. He opened his eyes to find a man staring at him. It was the Spanish General.

 _"¿Dónde está tu campamento?"_ (Where is your camp?) the man asked.

Aramis wasn't sure as to how he knew that he was Spanish, but decided to answer anyway. _"Yo no se."_ (I don't know.)

Looking around his surroundings, Aramis saw that he was in a dark room, with nothing but a small torch giving off light. He was chained to a wall, manacles wrapping around his legs and wrists, preventing him from taking even three steps.

 _"Preguntaré de nuevo: ¿dónde está tu campamento?"_ (I will ask you again: where is your camp?)

Aramis repeated what he said before, and received a heavy punch to the face for it.

And so it begins, the poor man thought, hanging his head and trying to clear his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Kind of a short chapter, but I still think it's a nice one. Please make sure to read and review.**

 **I hope you enjoy! :)**

 **-M**

* * *

Five days later, the Musketeers found themselves storming another Spanish camp, beginning to search for Aramis.

When Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan, and the General did find him, they were amazed at what they saw. Their friend was hanging against a wall, resting. His wrists and his ankles were completely raw and bleeding. He looked much thinner than he was before - and that was saying something, since he barely ate anything back at camp, anyway - and had cuts and bruises all over his body.

"Aramis!" Porthos breathed, falling on his knees to start picking the locks.

The injured man picked his head up, looking at the men with clouded eyes. "Yo … no se …?" he whispered brokenly, his head falling back against his chest.

"HE IS SPANISH?!" the General yelled, storming over and picking up Aramis' chin with fury. He saw fear in the soldier's eyes.

"He's French," Porthos growled out in return. "He was raised in Paris, and has been a Musketeer since age eighteen. He has served his King with more loyalty than I have ever see, and you would be a damn fool to think of him as the enemy. He. Is. French."

That shut the General up. He nodded slowly, the fury in his eyes receding. "Let us get him back to camp," he said softly.

By that time, Porthos was done with done with the locks. He caught him as carefully as he could, but still flinched when Aramis cried out. "I'm sorry, my friend," he apologized, taking his hand. "We will get you to safety soon."

Aramis' eyes slowly opened, and he gasped quietly. "P-Porthos?" he murmured, tears in his eyes. His voice was raspy; his vocal chords were most likely damaged.

"Don't talk, Aramis," Athos quickly said. "You might damage your voice even further. Just rest for now, and we'll get you back to camp. Don't worry about anything."

The marksman nodded, muttering a weak, 'thank you' in return.

In about two hours, once the Spanish camp was fully raided, the French soldiers made their way back to their camp. The minute they arrived, they rushed Aramis _back_ to the medic's tent, where all of his injuries were treated.

"The beat him," the field medic explained. "Three broken ribs, and two bruised. I am pretty sure that they tried to drown him, since his voice is almost gone. This must have been terrifying for him. I cannot even imagine how much he has suffered. All I know is that he will need some time to heal. I doubt that he will want to return back to Paris, but he should stay off of the battlefield if he can."

Athos nodded. "Thank you, O'Brian. Your help will never be forgotten."

The medic just shook his head. "Aramis is a friend. He has helped me with some of my patients, and has proved to be one of the most loyal people I have ever met. If the General even thinks of punishing him for his ethnicity, I will go to him myself and convince him otherwise."

They all thanked him, and then sat beside Aramis' bed, beginning to wait for him to finally wake.

XxXxX

" _¡Quiero saber dónde está tu campamento! ¡Dime! (I want to know where your camp is! Tell me!)" the Spanish General screamed, forcing Aramis into the water trough._

 _As cold water surrounded him and the lack of air began to cloud his vision, Aramis felt nothing but fear entering his soul. How could his own people do this to him?_

 _When he was pulled back out of the water, he couldn't do anything but cry, "¡NO NO SÉ! (I don't know!)"_

 _He was pushed back into the water, and once again, cold and darkness washed over him. The next time he was pulled out, he was thrown onto the dirty ground. He felt someone kicking his stomach, and he couldn't help but curl into himself to try and protect himself from the pain._

 _"Por favor, no sé, ¡lo juro! (Please, I don't know, I swear!)" he continued to scream. Of course he knew where his camp was, but even if he was in agonizing pain, he would never give his brothers away._

 _The beating continued on for what seemed like an eternity._

 _When it was finally over, he was left alone._

 _Aramis was still curled into this ball, unmoving, too hurt to even try to patch himself up. He kept on whispering in Spanish, unaware that he was completely delirious at this point._

 _The pain was becoming unbearable, and as unconsciousness came to meet him, he happily let it take over._

XxXxX

"Aramis, wake up," a familiar voice said. "It's just a nightmare. You're safe, I promise."

He gasped back into consciousness, crying out. He suddenly couldn't breathe. His entire body seized up, and he suddenly felt numb. Darkness came to meet him, and he was about to let it claim him again…

"Aramis, breathe!"

The worry Porthos' voice forced him back into reality. He felt himself breathing again, and relief washed over him. He sunk into the big man's arms, the tears coming back. "Oh God, where am I?" he whispered.

"You're back at the camp," said d'Artagnan. "The Spanish cannot hurt you anymore."

Aramis sighed once the reality finally entered his mind.

"You … you didn't tell them … did you?" asked Athos, worry in his voice.

"They know nothing," the marksman replied, smiling weakly. "You know I would never tell them anything."

He was instantly hugged by Porthos, and Aramis hugged him back.

"Thank you, my friend," Porthos said. "You may have just saved us all."

"Unfortunately, the General may not think so," Athos added. "He would like to see you later today."

Aramis nodded. "If he wants to see me, I will go."

"Well, you do not have to do anything right now," d'Artagnan assured him. "You just need to rest and heal. That is all you need right now. The General can wait."


	4. Chapter 4

**New chapter! This one introduces a new character, who will probably be more developed in the next chapter. I hope you like it!**

 **Please make sure to read and review!**

 **Also, there is a new chapter on the story The Queen And Her Minister, so go check it out! Leave prompts if you have any on that story!**

 **-M**

* * *

Aramis stood in front of the General's tent, taking small breaths to try and calm himself down.

"You will be fine," he whispered to himself, running his fingers through his curly locks. "Nothing will happen."

He walked into the tent, taking one last deep breath before he did. The minute he stepped in, he felt trapped.

The General was staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face.

"You wanted to see me, Sir?" Aramis said, realizing that he would have to start the conversation.

The General wasted no time. "Why did you not tell me that you're one of them?" he asked, saying that last word like it was something dirty on his tongue.

Aramis cleared his throat, feeling his blood beginning to boil. "Sir, I was born and raised in France," he began. "I have been a Musketeer since age eighteen, one of the first five when the regiment was started. Now I am almost thirty. I have seen things no soldier of my age should ever see; I have been in situations that I was barely able to escape from. I have served the King and Queen with loyalty … And I have never even thought that I was going against my country because France is my country. Even though I speak the Spanish language, and follow some of the customs, I am a Frenchman. Always will be."

The General's expression didn't change. After a moment of silence, he was about to ask something … but Aramis already knew what the question was going to be.

"No, I did not give any information to the enemy. Even when they tortured me, I knew that I would never do it. They know nothing. If I had to be in that kind of predicament again, I would do the same thing as before. You can count on it."

The older man began to nod. "Very well," he said coldly. "I will let you go unpunished. I will give you some time to heal, but not more than a week. Then you and your friends are to go back on the battlefield, where you will fight until your deaths. Understand?"

Aramis breathed out a sigh. "Yes, Sir," he said. "Thank you."

He bowed his head and left the tent, feeling the weight of the entire world finally off his shoulders.

He was then surrounded by his friends, who all had hopefulness in their eyes.

"Well?" asked Athos.

"He understood," replied Aramis. "Thank God," he added quietly.

He was suddenly in an embrace with Porthos, and he happily hugged back, burying his head in his friend's shoulder.

"Thank God is right," the big man said, locking his fingers in Aramis' hair. "What else did he say?" he asked once pulling away from the marksman.

"He's giving me another week to heal," said Aramis. "Then we all go back to fighting."

"That seems fair," d'Artagnan said, smiling.

"It sure is," Aramis replied, closing his eyes and leaning against Porthos. "It most definitely is."

XxXxX

Less than a week later, Aramis and his friends found themselves back on the battlefield, back in the trenches, and back in the midst of the grenades and canons.

As, yet, another bomb exploded around them and dirt flew on top of their heads, Aramis couldn't help flinching, his ears ringing. He threw his head back, and wiped sweat off his forehead.

He felt a water skin at his lips and when he opened his eyes, he saw d'Artagnan in front of him, giving him the water.

Aramis gratefully took the skin and took a small sip, savoring the goodness. He thanked the young Musketeer, and then gave the skin back.

Like before, Aramis was wounded once again, all because he wanted to save the other men.

More had been sent to fight, over fifty soldiers in all. Most of them showed promise, but some of them were still new to it all. It seemed that France was now desperate.

Once man in particular, whom the four Musketeers did not like, was rather strange. His name was Oliver deLuc. He was rude, and was willing to punish anyone who got in his way. And for some reason, he despised Aramis.

He once tried to trip him while he was walking, but thankfully, Aramis was smart and managed to avoid falling over on his, still, bruised ribs.

Oliver was definitely a coward, since he never went on the battlefield. He always wanted to stay behind and help the General, who adored him for unknown reasons.

Aramis shivered at the thought of Oliver, and forced himself to think about his task at hand.

He heard suddenly someone cry out and his instincts kicked in instantly.

He got out of the trench and ran towards the sound of moaning. Falling on his knees, he gathered a young man into his arms, who had a bullet in his chest, right above his heart.

"Help … me," he whispered weakly, before closing his eyes and falling limp. He was gone.

Aramis sighed, gasping as a blast erupted a couple of feet away from him. He scrambled back to his friends, collapsing on the ground right as he dodged an enemy bullet.

"Aramis!" he heard Porthos exclaim.

He quickly sat back up. "I'm alright, my friend," he replied. "I did not get hurt."

A couple of hours passed, and the battle finally ended.

The four them trudged back to camp, along with the surviving soldiers.

"It's like this war is going back and forth," Porthos remarked sadly. "It's going nowhere."

"Agreed," Aramis said, with equal sadness in his voice. He was slightly angry at himself for not being able to save a few soldiers, all of whom died in his arms, afraid and in pain. "It is never ending."

"Are you disrespecting your country, Aramis?" a voice from behind asked.

They turned around and found Oliver standing in front of them, a smirk on his face.

"Nobody asked you," d'Artagnan replied.

"It seems to be that your friend here is a Spanish spy," Oliver continued, as if not listening to what the other man said. "Maybe I should tell the General, no?"

"Aramis is more loyal and respectful than you will ever be," Porthos snarled. "Don't you dare call him a Spanish spy."

Oliver raised his hands as if in surrender. "Very well," he said. "We will settle this later."

With that he left, walking off towards his tent.

Aramis shook his head. "Do you think that's the end of it?" he asked, worry in his tone.

"I doubt it," replied Athos.


	5. Chapter 5

**After such a long time, I am back!!! I'm so sorry for the wait. Life, like always, has been kicking my sorry ass, so I haven't really had any time, nor any inspiration, to write. I'm also obsessing over this other story I am currently writing, so that's another excuse :D**

 **Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Please make sure to read and review.**

 **-M**

* * *

"Where is Aramis?" asked Porthos as he walked down to meet his three friends. "I haven't seen him since yesterday."

"I have not see him either," Athos replied, concern in his tone. "Could he be with the General?"

"How about we check?" d'Artagnan offered.

They quickly made their way to the General's tent. But when they asked if he had seen their Aramis, the man said no.

"You better find him, men," he said. "If he has deserted, he will be known as a traitor to France. He _will_ be punished for it.

When they left, worry began to take ahold of them all.

"Aramis would never desert," d'Artagnan said quietly. "Ever. He loves us and France too much to ever do it."

"Let's search all over," Porthos said. "We have to find him."

They all knew that if this was something bigger than just disappearing, then Aramis would probably be in big trouble. They only prayed that this was all a misunderstanding, that Aramis was somewhere safe, if not happy, then at least healthy.

After an hour of searching, they realized that Aramis was not at camp. He wasn't anywhere at all. This was bad. _Really bad._

"Where could be possibly be?" d'Artagnan said. His comrades heard the slight frustration in his voice. They knew that he was incredibly worried.

Aramis, out of all of them, had always been the one who had taken the time to teach the youngster. He took him under his wing and made him a better Amman and a better soldier. As a result, d'Artagnan grew very fond of him. This loss was just as hard for him as it was for them.

Athos sighed, and was about to say something when he stopped dead in his tracks. "Oliver," he breathed. Guilt began seeping into his heart.

"What about him?" Porthos asked, clearly not understanding.

"Oliver had said that he and Aramis would settle something later," Athos began. As thoughts rushed through his head, he realized that he was probably right. "What if he kidnapped Aramis last night, drugged him somehow, and brought him somewhere where nobody would be able to find him."

"But wouldn't Aramis have noticed?" asked d'Artagnan, hoping that what Athos was saying wasn't true.

"When we came back from battle, Aramis was the most exhausted of us all," Athos continued. "After we separated, he probably went back to his tent and fell asleep., never noticing somebody drugging him."

Porthos growled quietly. "That bastard of a child," he whispered, clenching his fists.

"We will get him back, Porthos," Athos quickly said. "Let us talk to the General. Maybe he will see some sense in all this and will permit us to start a search _and_ put a bounty on Oliver if it is all true."

The three of them nodded, and began their way back to the General's tent. When they explained the situation, though, the man did not care as much as they had wanted him to.

"Oliver deLuc is one of the best soldiers we have," he said. "He would never do something like that to a fellow soldier. No, I do not permit a search. Maybe they will turn up in a few days."

"And if they don't?" Porthos asked in a cold tone. He and the General stared at each other with hatred.

"General, how about you give them two days?" Athos asked. "If neither of them show up, then we will go searching. Does that seem fair?"

After a couple of moments of silence, the older man nodded. "Very well, men. We will wait two days."

XxXxX

As Aramis opened his eyes, his vision was blurred. He blinked to try and clear it, thankfully succeeding.

"So, you're awake?" a familiar, unfriendly voice said.

Looking up, the marksman saw that Oliver was standing in front of him, a smirk on his face. He turned his head to try and see where he was.

Just like when the Spanish had captured him, he was chained against a wall. Only this time, the manacles were much tighter around his wrists and ankles, which is what made him worry.

He was in a room with no windows, everything made out of cold stone. A door was on the far left, away from where he was chained. This was well planned, he realized.

"What do you want?" he asked, trying to keep his voice strong. He did not know if he failed or succeeded.

"I do not know why the General has let you stay a soldier," Oliver said. "But I can assure you that you will be punished for it. You are Spanish and nothing else. You are a traitor of this country." He paused, his smirk growing into a cold grin." And I do not like traitors."

He lunged at him, something shiny in his hand.

Aramis gasped as pain erupted in his leg, and he closed his eyes to try and fight it off.

When he looked back up, he saw Oliver cleaning his blood off of the knife he was holding. "I can tell we are going to have a lot of fun for the next few days."

"My friends will find me," Aramis said, breathing heavily as blood trickled down his leg. "They will find me and then they will _kill you_. I am no Spanish spy. I am no traitor. If anything, _you_ are the damned traitor, hurting a fellow soldier like you are now."

For those words, he received a heavy punch. Stars filled his vision, and he felt blood in his mouth.

"Oh, I know, that I will be found out sooner or later," Oliver said. "But by that time, I will have completed my goal. You will be in broken pieces, never to recover again."

Another punch.

"So you better hang on as hard as you can. Because the next few days of your life will consist of nothing but torture."


	6. Chapter 6

**This is a pretty sad chapter, I think. There's a lot of hurt Aramis, so get ready. I hope you enjoy!**

 **Please make sure to read and review! Those always make me happy :)**

 **-M**

* * *

Every part of his abused body hurt.

He still hung from those God awful chains, his wrists and ankles raw and bleeding. He couldn't even look at them without beginning to tremble.

Oliver definitely knew what he was doing. He used many horrible and advanced torture techniques. One of them, one that Aramis hated the most, was when he would heat up a metal rod, and press it somewhere on his body. It was painful, but each time, Aramis refused to let out any more than a choked groan.

Now, as he hung in silence, chin against his chest, eyes closed, his body convulsing, all he wanted was for the darkness to finally claim him. He prayed to his God, that this would all be over soon.

But it seemed as if his God abandoned him.

He was completely alone.

As he tried his best to sleep as much as he could, his mind created a mental torture chamber just for him. He would hear screaming almost constantly, sometimes he would have nightmares, and sometimes he would hallucinate.

He would see one - _or all_ \- of his friends standing in front of him, holding some kind of weapon. He pictured them beating him, or hurting him in some way, and as these hallucinations became more frequent, he felt himself slowly falling apart.

The only time when he didn't have these hallucinations and nightmares, was when Oliver was torturing him.

The pure agony he had to face for hours every day was enough to force all other thoughts away. It forced him to think only about pain, and how it was eating away at his body.

Aramis knew he would not be able to survive much longer.

So when he heard a gunshot and the door to his cell opened, Aramis tensed, expecting Oliver to come in and hurt him more...

But it wasn't Oliver.

It was his three friends.

Athos was holding a smoking musket in his hand.

Just as they were about to run towards him, Porthos' hand shot out and stopped them. "He's afraid," he said softly, jerking his head to the shaking man. "We need to let him know that he's safe."

The others nodded.

Slowly, Porthos inched his way closer to his best friend, talking to him the entire time. When he was close enough, he said, "'Mis, it's me … Porthos. I need to get you off of those chains. Can I do that?"

Aramis' eyes fell on him, and Porthos could see nothing but pain and fear in those glassy, brown orbs. He smiled when the man nodded, taking out his lock picks and getting to work.

In a few minutes, he had picked the locks - which were incredibly difficult to pick - and caught Aramis as he gracelessly fell to the ground.

The poor soldier cried out as he hit the floor, his injuries making themselves known to him. He felt himself in Porthos' arms, the big man holding him tightly.

"O-Oliver?" he asked, brokenly.

"He's gone, _mon ami_ ," Porthos replied, squeezing Aramis' hand gently. "He won't hurt you anymore."

Aramis just nodded, sucking in a breath as he leaned against Porthos. "Gone…," he repeated, closing his tired eyes.

Porthos sighed, gently ruffling his friend's hair for comfort. "Let's get you back to camp, shall we?"

The marksman grunted in return, suddenly falling limp, all of his remaining energy - and it wasn't that much - finally leaving him.

Porthos easily picked him up and carried him out the cell, just in time to see Athos roar and pull his musket's trigger, sending a bullet into Oliver's head.

When he looked at Aramis, his anger washed away and pure sadness took its place. "That bastard," he whispered. He walked up to Aramis, gently cupping his face. "He did _all this_?"

Porthos nodded. "All of it," he managed to say through gritted teeth.

D'Artagnan was suddenly at their side. "At least he cannot hurt anyone else," he offered.

Athos snorted. " _At least_ ," he replied bitterly.

In a few hours, they finally got back to their camp. The General immediately started asking questions, but d'Artagnan was quick to shut him up, promising that they would explain everything later.

They rushed Aramis into his and Porthos' tent, where they began mending his wounds, knowing that their medic was busy with other patients.

They were on their own with this one.

Immediately, they saw the heavy burn marks that marred Aramis' entire body. One of them was in a shape of a ' _T_ '.

"Traitor," Athos guessed. "Oliver branded him to let him know that he is a traitor to France."

"If he wasn't dead, I'd kill him," Porthos growled, his hands reaching for the wet cloths they had prepared. He pressed them against their patient's body, wincing when Aramis cried out.

Thankfully, he did not regain consciousness.

Once dealing with the burns to the best of their ability, they moved on to Aramis' wrists and ankles. They were bloody and torn; obviously, he was never let down from his chains.

With the help of Porthos, Athos cleaned them and wrapped them, trying to be as gently as possible.

It was then that Aramis started muttering in his sleep.

"No," he was whispering. "Please … _Stop_!"

All of a sudden, he screamed, his voice cracking. He let out heavy sob, attempting to curl into himself, but failing.

Quickly, Porthos gathered him into his arms, holding tightly. He jerked his head at the poor man's body. " _Fix him_ ," he whispered, his eyes falling back on Aramis, hoping that by holding him like this, he would calm down.

His hopes and prayers were answered. Aramis did not make a sound after that.

When it was all over and done with, Athos and d'Artagnan decided that they should let Aramis rest.

"You should come with us, Porthos," Athos said.

The bigger man shook his head. "'Mis needs me more than the General does," he replied. "Tell him everything you know. When Aramis is awake and well enough to talk about it, he will explain the rest."

His two friends nodded and left, sparing one final glance at their burden.

Porthos looked down at Aramis. "You can rest now, 'Mis," he said. "No one is gonna hurt you anymore. You're safe, with me."

In a couple of seconds, Aramis muttered the word, "safe," and let his head fall against Porthos' strong chest. "S-Safe," he repeated. "With ... you."


	7. Chapter 7

**I only have two more days of February Break, so updates will be much less frequent soon. Probably once a week. I truly apologize. I still hope you enjoy!**

 **This chapter is not that angsty, but the next one will probably be _extremely_ angsty. Just bare with me, you guys!**

 **In the meantime, make sure to read and review. Also! Please try and leave a prompt in my story "The Queen and Her Minister". I know I haven't updated it in a while, but I promise I will soon.**

 **-M**

* * *

Aramis woke up two days later, and he seemed completely different.

All the joy that was once there was gone, and he seemed quiet and afraid all the time. The brightness in his eyes wasn't there anymore; instead, they were dull. Even his shooting was off! His hand was shaking far too much to hit any target.

The General was slowly growing angry at this. When Athos and d'Artagnan had gone to talk to him, he had said that he would give Aramis some time to recover. But as the days passed, he realized that this soldier was not fit for duty.

So one day, he called these four men into his tent.

He immediately noticed that Aramis was standing far away from his desk, as if he was afraid his General was going to harm him.

"Aramis, step forward," he was quick to say.

The young man obeyed, taking a few steps towards him, keeping his head down.

"I understand that you have been through a lot over the last month," he began. His voice was cold, but not as cold as it used to be when he addressed him. "And I am truly sorry for everything the Spanish and Oliver have put you through."

He watched as Aramis shivered.

"I now realize that you are unfit for duty, and need a break. I have decided to let you go back to Paris, along with one of your comrades. You will be given time to recover, and, hopefully, within a month, you will be back on the battlefield."

Aramis' dark eyes widened. "Are you sure about this, Sir?" he asked him, confusion and relief in his quiet voice.

The General nodded. "Yes, I am sure. Now … who will go home with you?"

"I will."

All eyes fell on Porthos. None of them had expected him to give up the battlefield for his friend, although as the realization began to sink in, they all understood that this was just the kind of thing the big man would be willing to sacrifice for someone like Aramis.

After a moment of silence, the General nodded. "Very well," he said. "Porthos and Aramis, you may pack your things and make your way back to Paris. I will have a letter for you within an hour."

All four men nodded, and slowly retired from the tent.

XxXxX

In an hour or two, the letter was written and signed, and Porthos and Aramis were ready to leave.

"You travel safe, Aramis," said Athos, pulling his friend into a hug. Even though Aramis returned it, it was not as happy and deep as he was used to. "Come back soon so we can continue this adventure of ours."

When Aramis pulled away, he smiled, the smile never reaching his eyes. "Thank you, Athos."

Athos then went to his other friend, pulling _him_ into a hug as well. "Keep him safe for me," he said quietly. "Help him get better."

"You know I will," the big man replied.

Next came d'Artagnan. He and Aramis hugged, and the youngster couldn't help but bury his head in Aramis' shoulder. "Come back soon," he said. "You still have so much to teach me, and we still have so much more to do."

Aramis nodded, pulling away. D'Artagnan noticed how he tried hard not to make any eye contact.

Once all the goodbyes were done with, and the General gave Porthos his letter, the two of them were off.

The ride was silent. It seemed that Aramis was _nervous_ to speak, which surprised Porthos, since he always expected him to talk and talk until he was, either, too tired, or had arrived at his destination. The fact that Aramis was saying _nothing_ was nerve racking.

A couple of hours into their trip, Porthos couldn't take the silence anymore.

"Aramis, are you alright?" he asked the poor man. Sadness crept into his heard when Aramis jerked, his eyes falling on him. He was terrified.

He nodded slowly.

Porthos smiled to try and show some encouragement. "We're almost in Paris," he told him.

Once again, Aramis just nodded.

Finally, they arrived in Paris. As they rode into the garrison, they immediately saw Constance, who was helping a wounded cadet patch up. When she saw her two old friends, her eyes lit up. She watched as the two of them jumped off their horses, and she immediately noticed how Aramis was holding his body. Something was clearly off.

"It is so good to see you two!" she exclaimed, pulling them into a hug. She felt Aramis' body tense up at her contact, and a question entered her mind: What happened to him?

When they pulled away, Porthos smiled and said, "Let me take you up to your room, Aramis."

The man didn't say anything. He followed Porthos upstairs.

In a few minutes, Porthos came back downstairs, his expression different than before. He came up to Constance, sighing.

"What happened to him, Porthos?" she asked. "He seems … different."

"While we were back there, a soldier captured Aramis … and tortured him. Severely. We were only able to rescue him five days later, but by that time that man had already managed to traumatize him. He hasn't been the same ever since. Our General, that bastard, decided to send him back home. He wanted to give him some time to heal. The first thing he has done right so far."

Constance's eyes widened. "Oh God," she whispered. "The poor thing."

Porthos nodded. "I'm just hoping that his mind will heal … soon."

The woman shook her head. "He must be terrified."

"Normally, I wouldn't have worried about something like this, since we are captured and tortured all the time. But this time was different. That bastard called him a traitor, just because he was Spanish. He decided to hurt him for his ethnicity. He himself was a coward. He is the true traitor of France."

"What happened to him?" Constance dared to ask.

"Athos finished him," replied Porthos. "Thankfully."

"What are we going to do now?"

Porthos sighed again. "Hope that he'll make it through this," he said. "The two of us, and probably Treville, will have to help him. Otherwise, he will stand no chance." He closed his eyes. "This might be worse than Savoy. I have never seen him so afraid."

Constance felt tears stinging her eyes. "Me neither. I pray that we will be able to help him somehow."


	8. Chapter 8

**You guys!!! I'm back!!!!!!!!!! Yes, I know, it's almost been a month, but I'm finally back. The reason for my absence is because I had a major case of writer's block, as well as a lot of other dark problems that have to do with life. Still, I am going to attempt finishing this story, as well _The Queen And Her Minister_. Hopefully it works out. To those that haven't forgotten me, I thank you for you patience ;))))**

 **-M**

* * *

That night, while Constance and Porthos were talking with a few young cadets about a problem they were facing in Paris, Aramis had nightmares.

They were all startled when they heard a heart wrenching scream come from Aramis room.

Constance and Porthos immediately exchanged a worried glance, knowing exactly what was happening in their friend's room.

Another scream.

"Why is he screaming?" one of the cadets, who was still innocent in what fighting can really do to you. He always told Constance how he wanted to be like the real Musketeers and fight on the battlefield. He had no idea that this is what could happen during war.

"You would be too if you went through what Aramis had survived," replied Constance.

Without another word, she and Porthos ran up to Aramis' room. They quietly opened his door and walked in, pity taking over them at what they saw.

Poor Aramis was writhing in the covers, surrounded in a pool of sweat, muttering incoherently. Even though his eyes were closed, pure pain was written all over his face. There was also blood staining the covers; Porthos realized that he must have accidentally pulled on one of his wounds too hard and it started bleeding.

The two of them fell on their knees beside his bed, looking him over.

"Aramis, darling, wake up," Constance said softly, taking the man's shaking hand and squeezing. "You're safe, you're at the garrison. Everything is alright. You have to wake up."

Porthos sighed. "Come now, Aramis. Go on, my friend, open your-"

Suddenly, Aramis screamed, pulling himself up to an upright position. His back was incredibly straight, but his body was convulsing with tremors. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, tears slightly glossing them.

"You with us, Aramis?" asked Porthos, smiling slightly.

Aramis did not reply.

The big man watched as Constance gathered Aramis into her arms, beginning to calm him down. "Take a deep breath, Aramis, you're alright," she said softly, stroking his hair.

"It was s-so real," Aramis whispered, his voice sounding broken.

"I know, Aramis," she quickly said. "I know. But it's over now, darling. Everything is just fine."

As Aramis continued to tremble in Constance's arms, Porthos ran to get a glass of water from his desk, running right back to help the man drink, trying to be as gentle as possible. "Here, 'Mis," he said, rubbing his shoulder. "Drink. It'll help you."

"Why w-was it s-so real…?" Aramis repeated, burying his head in Constance's shoulder. "Why…?"

"Darling, it's alright, just calm down," Constance continued trying to tell him, stroking his hair and kissing the top of his hair. "You're safe now, Aramis. Those men can't hurt you anymore, I promise you." She paused, unsure of what else to say. "Just take a deep breath, darling, everything is just fine."

In about an hour, Aramis finally fell asleep again, too exhausted and hurt to try and fight anymore. When Constance and Porthos left the room, he was sweating and trembling, slight whimpers escaping his lips. The two of them slowly made their way back to the training area of their Garrison, sitting down on the nearest bench. In unison, they let out a long, sad sigh.

"What did those monsters do to him?" Constance asked, her voice wavering slightly. "How did he succeed in destroying such a … beautiful, honorable person? How did he manage to take all the life away from him within a couple of days?"

Porthos shook his head, not sure how to answer that. "Aramis … he went through a lot when that man captured him. He wasn't even a man, really, he was just a selfish child who despised 'Mis because he was Spanish. He kidnapped him, and then he tortured him. When we found him, he was burned and branded, a 'T' permanently written on his side. I can't even imagine the pain he suffered. In all honesty, Constance, I don't know if he'll get better soon. This is much worse than Savoy, I think, and Aramis may not be able to recover from it."

By the time he finished, Constance was crying silently, her head in her hands. "He didn't deserve this," she said quietly, looking up to find Aramis' room. "He didn't deserve any of this."

Porthos just leaned in and kissed her cheek gently. "I know," he replied, taking her hand and squeezing it. "I know … Now, I'm gonna go back and stay with him. He needs it. Maybe you can prepare some food for him?"

Constance nodded, wiping the tears away. "Some soup will be ready in about an hour," she replied.

"Thank you."

When Porthos came back to his friend's room, he was happy to see that Aramis was sleeping. He was still trembling slightly, his body drenched in sweat. His hands were twitching, as if someone was beating him. Every minute or so, he would mutter something in, either, Spanish or French. Whatever language it was, Porthos couldn't decipher it.

Pretty soon, though, Aramis woke from another nightmare, his mind and body unable to take anymore. As he gasped into reality, he hadn't been expecting someone to be sitting near him, and he was quick to push away from who he thought would bring him harm. His eyes were clouded, tearfilled.

"'Mis, it's me," Porthos said, reaching to touch Aramis' shaking hand. He still didn't expect the man to flinch and pull away. "It's alright, _mon ami_ , you had just had another nightmare. But you're safe now. No one can harm you, I promise. You're perfectly safe."

Slowly, the marksman began to understand that he really was safe. In a few minutes, he let out a breath and closed his eyes. "Porthos," he whispered. He repeated the name one more time, as if to convince himself that everything was alright. "Where am I?"

"You're at the Garrison, in your old room," Porthos replied, surprised that Aramis didn't remember.

"Oh." His tone held no emotion, as if all the life had been sucked out of him. In a way, it had been.

"Do you think you can sleep some more?" Porthos asked then. "It might help you…?"

Aramis shook his head. "I … c-can't." He slowly began to sit up. "I need to get out of here," he began to mutter, flinging his legs over his bed, not even caring that he was bringing himself more pain. "I need to … I need to get out of here." He slowly stood up, stumbling towards the door, using the walls as support.

Porthos followed him, quickly catching the man when he collapsed. "Take it easy, 'Mis," he told him, helping him back up. "You're still weak. Just let me help you."

Once again, his shaking friend shook his head. "You can not help," he whispered brokenly. "No one can help me."


	9. Chapter 9

**Pretty short, and uneventful, chapter, but I think it's important. I hope you enjoy! Please make sure to read and review :))**

* * *

Days passed, and Aramis only seemed to be getting worse. He barely talked anymore, barely let out any type of emotion. No sadness, no grief, no guilt, nothing. He never let any of it out, which worried their friends a lot. He barely ate, either, and as a result became incredibly thin and bony. His face was always pale and tired, heavy dark circles under his eyes. He never slept, either. The nightmares were too much for him. As a result, he was constantly exhausted, and was never able to do anything for a long time.

Porthos and Constance tried hard to help him, to take care of him. Everytime he had a nightmare, they would be there to fight them off. They would be the ones that forced their Aramis to eat as much as he could. But the more they did it, the more Aramis seemed to push them away.

"We have to help him," Constance said one night, after they had calmed him down from another nightmare. They were now sitting in Porthos' room, debating on what they should do. "There has to be someone we can call … What about Treville?"

The bigger man shook his head. "I tried to see him, but I was told he was busy on a diplomatic meeting of some sort and wouldn't be back for another month or two." He sighed heavily, standing up and beginning to pace. Suddenly, his eyes lit up. "The Queen," he said softly, realization washing over him. "She could help."

"I have not talked to her in ages," Constance admitted. "But I think that it will work. If we could somehow get her to visit the Garrison … I'll go to the Palace tomorrow, try to see her. Maybe she'll finally make Aramis whole again."

That next morning, Constance Bonacieux made her way to the Louvre as fast as he possibly could. She immediately called for the Queen, who, thankfully, had the time to see her. She quickly walked over to Her Majesty's room, happy that she was already there, taking off her jewelry and makeup.

"Constance!" Anne exclaimed, jumping up and running over to her friend. She embraced her in a tight hug. "It is so good to see you again. We haven't talked in so long." She pulled away, and when noticing the woman's grim expression, realized that something was terribly wrong. "What had happened."

"Anne, it is about Aramis," Constance began, holding onto both of the Queen's small hands. "He came back to Paris two weeks ago, with Porthos. Something happened while he was on the front…" She cleared her throat when her voice began to shake. Still, she continued, "He was captured, first by the enemy, and then, later, by a fellow soldier who thought that Aramis was a traitor because he was Spanish. He was tortured. Severely. He is still healing from all of the physical wounds. But lately, he just has not been acting like himself. He has not been eating, or sleeping, or doing _anything_ , for that matter. We have been talking about it, and Porthos and I decided that maybe _you_ could help him. I am sure he has not forgotten about you. And I am sure that he still…" She smiled weakly, hoping that Anne would understand her. "Please, Anne, come back to the Garrison with me today. Aramis needs you."

Without even hesitating, Anne agreed to go with Constance. She needed to help her former lover. In truth, she still loved him, and that is why she held herself responsible in trying to help him. She just told His Majesty that she had a small errand to run and that she may not be back until tomorrow, perhaps later. Louis found no problems with that, thankfully.

The two women arrived back at the Garrison less than an hour later. Porthos was already waiting for them, pacing. When he saw the Queen, his eyes lit up, suddenly full of hope. "Majesty," he said softly, helping Anne out of her carriage and onto the ground. "Aren't I glad to see you. 'Mis is sleeping, in his room. You can go see him, if you want."

Anne nodded her thanks and almost ran up the stairs that led to his room. She still remembered where it was, she noticed. When she opened the door, Aramis was, indeed, sleeping. It wasn't a peaceful sleep, Anne realized, and that is what made her want to cry inside.

Poor Aramis was curled up in a tight ball in the middle of his bed, slightly trembling. His face wore a pained expression, with his mouth open in a silent scream and his eyes scrunched shut. Slight gasps escaped his lips every so often, a quiet moan following right after.

Slowly, the Queen sat down beside the injured man, reaching for this hand and interlocking his fingers with her own. Oh, how good it felt to finally have his calloused hand in her's! She began running her fingers over his skin, a habit that she had acquired during their brief period of romance. She missed it so much.

"Anne?"

His confused voice startled her, and she jumped. She then understood that while she was in her thoughts, Aramis had woken up. Quickly locking eyes with the man, she smiled, beginning to stroke his hair with a feather light touch. "Yes, Aramis, it is I," she said softly. "I am here."

Aramis shook his head, unable to believe that the woman that he loved was in the same room with her. "You can't be here," he whispered. "You should be back at the Louvre … This is a trick."

"No, Aramis," Anne assured him, pressing her lips to his hand, holding it close to her chest. "This is not a trick. I have come to help you." Carefully, she moved over to sit on Aramis' bed, letting him pillow his head on her lap. She felt him trembling against her, and couldn't help but kiss the top of his hair, caressing his face. "I am right here with you," she said softly. "Now sleep. I'm not going anywhere."


End file.
